Bay Area asexuals organize to build supportive community

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Kit Pavlekovsky, left, and Kylie Fournier, right, smile during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

People get together for coffee during an event organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. The group tries to have a meetup at least once a month.(Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

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Mary Kame Ginoza holds a cup of coffee during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

People have a conversation during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

Charlie Burd smiles during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

People have a conversation during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

Mary Kame Ginoza wears a bracelet adorned with the colors of the asexuality flag during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

Mary Kame Ginoza, left, speaks while James Hofmann, right, listens during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

Mary Kame Ginoza holds her Asexual flag in her home in Berkeley, Calif., on Sunday, July 29, 2018. Ginoza is a lead organizer for Asexuality San Francisco. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

A portrait of Mary Kame Ginoza in her home in Berkeley, Calif., on Sunday, July 29, 2018. Ginoza is a lead organizer for Asexuality San Francisco. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

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Mary Kame Ginoza didn’t come out as asexual for a long time because she thought people would judge her: She just hadn’t found the right person, she wasn’t trying hard enough, she was repressing her sexuality.

When she did start discussing her orientation, she sometimes found herself spending 45 minutes explaining that it’s true, she isn’t sexually attracted to anyone. She dealt with misconceptions, such as “what if you met like a really, really cute guy? Would that change that?”

Eight years later, awareness of asexuality has increased, to the point where some people Ginoza talks to know other asexuals. Starting with internet forums and social media, Bay Area asexuals have built a community where they can dispel misconceptions about their sexual orientation and support one another.

A portrait of Mary Kame Ginoza in her home in Berkeley, Calif., on Sunday, July 29, 2018. Ginoza is a lead organizer for Asexuality San Francisco. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

The Berkeley resident now leads the organization Asexuality San Francisco, a Bay Area social support and educational group. Local awareness and acceptance has developed over the years, and she recalls how meaningful her first march with the asexual group at San Francisco Pride was in 2011.

“I remember when I was first questioning asexuality, I didn’t have any local role models that were visible examples of asexuality at the time,” Ginoza, 26, said. “I know how big a deal it is to meet someone else in person and get the validation that it’s not just you, it’s not just this thing on the internet. There’s a whole community.”

Asexuality has grown since the sexual orientation became publicly visible in the early 2000s, largely because of the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network, an online community and resource archive. Members began meeting in San Francisco by 2005, according to David Jay, the founder of the network.The Bay Area is recognized as a major center of the asexual community.

Over the years, researchers have come to better understand that asexuality is not linked to trauma a person may have suffered or medical issues, according to Lori Brotto, a professor at British Columbia University and Canada Research Chair in Women’s Sexual Health. Asexuals are not “broken” because they do not experience “natural” sexual attraction, Brotto said. The sexual orientation itself does not cause psychological symptoms and is not an offshoot of sexual dysfunction.

“Sexual dysfunctions require the presence of clinically significant distress, or bother, and in most cases, the individual would prefer not to have the sexual issue, and/or would accept treatment for it,” Brotto said in an email. “In the case of asexuality, there is no personal distress associated with the lack of sexual attraction, nor do asexuals want or need treatment.”

While no comprehensive worldwide studies have been conducted, according to KJ Cerankowski, an assistant professor of gender, sexuality and feminist studies at Oberlin University, a 2004 study found that at least 1 percent of people worldwide do identify as asexual. But not enough people understand what asexuality is and therefore many don’t identify with it. In fact, Cerankowski said, some people who identify as asexual have sex while others don’t have sex at all.

Mary Kame Ginoza, left, speaks while James Hofmann, right, listens during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

San Jose native and resident Jackson Roach, 25, has identified as “gray asexual” — someone who might very rarely experience sexual attraction — for about a year and has sex with his partner.

“I’m generally sex-positive in that I’m not sex-repulsed, but I still don’t experience sexual attraction,” Roach said. “But I don’t mind the idea of it, I guess. It’s more of an intimacy thing with a partner rather than a sexual drive.”

His parents don’t exactly understand what being asexual means, Roach said, but they respect it. Although he first heard about asexuality in high school, it took him a while to sort out his sexual orientation.

Like other asexuals who have diverse gender identities and romantic orientations, Roach first determined he is transgender, meaning his gender identity differs from the sex he was assigned at birth, and panromantic, meaning he feels romantic attraction to people of all genders.

Some asexuals identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender, while other asexuals are straight or cisgender, meaning someone who identifies as their sex assigned at birth. Asexuality is also different from celibacy, which is a choice not to have sex.

People have a conversation during a meetup organized by Asexuality SF in San Francisco on Sunday, July 15, 2018. (Randy Vazquez/ Bay Area News Group)

Living in a culture that focuses heavily on sex annoys Oakland resident Nilambari Davis, 35. She identifies as demisexual — someone who only experiences sexual attraction when an emotional connection is made — but usually throws out asexual when coming out to people. To connect with asexuals who may be struggling with loneliness or stigma, she started attending Asexuality SF meetups last year.

“I’m still interested in collecting other people’s origin stories,” Davis said. “And just curiosity right now, just to see what we look like.”

Asexuality SF meets every third Sunday of the month, rotating between Sunnyvale, Oakland, and San Francisco. Around 10 to 20 people meet at each one, but 400 people are subscribed to the email list, with about 150 semi active, according to Ginoza.

San Jose’s Billy De Frank LGBTQ Community Center, like the Santa Clara County LGBTQ Youth Space, does not currently have an asexual social support group. But board president Gabrielle Antolovich, 68, said the center would welcome such a group, even though there is a learning curve for some visitors.

“That’s why I’m putting the flags all around so people can start thinking that this identity does exist,” Antolovich said, “and that everyone gets to be honored for who they are and how they identify.”

Once she heard someone react by saying, “You’re asexual? But you’re so sexy.” Antolovich pulled the person aside to explain why an apology was necessary. The comment, she explained, isn’t too different from telling a lesbian, “You’re so beautiful, how could you be gay?”

In 1983 in Los Angeles, Antolovich first heard someone explain that she didn’t experience sexual attraction. When she shared the term asexual with her years later, Antolovich remembers how happy the woman was to find out she wasn’t alone.

“That’s the most important thing: being validated, being honored and happy with who they are,” said Antolovich, who identifies as lesbian and genderqueer. “Not being who you are is what’s painful, and believing you should be different.”

Kristin Lam is a Chips Quinn news intern for The Mercury News. She’s passionate about covering underrepresented communities. A recent San Jose State grad, she previously interned at Metro Silicon Valley. Her DMs are open for tips and journalism job apps.

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